


painted sinatra blue

by rbbsbb



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Artist Louis, Bottom Louis, M/M, Model Harry, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Strangers to Lovers, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 15:03:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12633534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rbbsbb/pseuds/rbbsbb
Summary: It’s been so long since anyone touched him like this, since anyone wanted to.





	painted sinatra blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alex4968](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex4968/gifts).



> for alex.
> 
> i'm sorry if i strayed from the prompt a little. still, i hope you enjoy.
> 
> prompt: Starving Artist Louis AU where Louis is barely making it by by selling his art, living in a tiny flat on the bad side of town, and he accidentally spills paint on Posh Harry's gucci suit in the middle of walmart at 3am, when he was on a run for new supplies in the middle of a muse-driven-all nighter. Feat. An apologetic Louis and a very, very smug Harry.

It’s winter in London, streets mostly filled with grey snow and air that sits sticky in your lungs. People don’t venture out of their houses that often around this time of year, driving being much too dangerous and absolutely no pleasure coming from hanging around in the brutal chill of the day.

Louis stays inside often, but for reasons different than most of the Londoners around him. He hasn’t painted anything in months, inspiration lost long ago when he first finished university and went to live on his own in the dingy part of town where rent is cheap but the alleyways are sketchy.

Somewhere between the end of school and the beginning of his life as an adult, Louis lost the will to paint for fun, having to rely on it for a source of income rather than a hobby. Becoming dependent on something to the point where it is a must ruins the fun of it, makes it almost a struggle to do because it’s always a make or break.

And, Louis’ tried everything in search of inspiration, from lounging in the park at three in the morning to spending money that he hasn’t got at some hipster pub on the expensive streets of the city. It’s been so long, though, too much time for him to pass it off as a creative block.

He’s just struggling now, trying his hardest to create something that he’ll be able to proudly call his own. Sleeping is rare, because he’s always up until the sun rises, tearing into his sketchbook until the pages rip through and his pencils run down. Louis’ mum hasn’t heard from him in ages, nor has any other member of society. He’s down to his final funds, savings account almost bled dry from the lack of income that Louis’ had in the past months.

Short of selling his soul for even a smidge of a muse, Louis’ done everything in his power to put his degree to use. He’s down to his final weeks of sanity, stressed beyond belief.

Louis knows that the best artists have had to struggle for their art, but he isn’t sure how much longer he can hold out before he’s got to go back home, set up shop in his childhood bedroom with his tail between his legs, listening to his mum go on and on about how she warned him that being an artist would never bring home money.

Only once has Louis ventured to sell something, bringing home the smallest in royalties that he thinks an artist has ever made. That was months ago, though, and Louis has long since lost any ounce of pride that he once had in his work that led him to even try to sell something.

And, now, it’s winter, and Louis has nothing to do but sit around and waste away, hoping that inspiration comes his way. It’s quite pitiful, honestly.

His friends are worried about him, because he never comes out for drinks anymore or invites them over. It’s not as simple as that, though. Louis’ got no money and no will to interact with others. Honestly, it’s much more simple to ignore Liam’s phone calls, to delete himself off Facebook so that Niall can’t harass him via messenger, to completely drop off the face of the earth.

Louis’ just waiting for the inspiration to come to him. Just an ounce of inspiration will set things right, and then he can go back to how things used to be. For now, though, he’s got to sit and suffer.

~

Everything goes awry on a Wednesday night, the clock ticking late and the streets gone dark. Louis is awake until the world starts to come alive, most days, and he’s doing nothing out of the ordinary when it hits him.

In the middle watching some dramatic, independent film on Netflix, Louis nearly topples over at the wave of inspiration that suddenly washes over him. He’s so involved in the film, every single character relating to him in a way that always leaves him feeling a little less alone in the world, and every single part of it leaves him wanting more.

It's in the cinematography, it's in the color scheme, it's in the way that the two protagonists lock lips in such a passionate way. Every bit of the movie is cliché, straight from a fever dream during Louis' youth.  
  
But, for some reason, it fills him with more inspiration than he's had in months. Whether it be from the nostalgia or from pure spontaneity, something about the film has sparked a fizzled out desire in him, lighting up the synapses in his brain that have gone dim with lack of use.  
  
A wire come to life, bursting with electricity and fire, Louis' completely overcome with ingenuity.  
  
He wants to paint an alleyway where two strangers would meet for a smoke, hidden behind the harsh, neon lights of whatever club they've stumbled out of. He wants to draw the dingy bathroom of a broken down flat that some newlyweds can barely afford, despite it being the cheapest place on the realtor's roster. He wants to sketch the shape of the man he imagines he will become, aged and jaded in a way that only someone who has struggled for their art could understand.  
  
His work station is a mess, cluttered with shreds of sketch paper that Louis couldn't bare to look at as one piece. It only takes one swipe of his arm to clean the area, exposing the old, cracked mahogany table for the world to see. It’s got splatters of dried paint here and there, stains on the corner from where Louis’ mug so often sits and weeps condensation.

He hasn’t got a clue what he wants to create. Louis only knows that he hasn’t felt this free and inspired since his high school days, back when he didn’t rely on his own creativity to keep food on the table. It’s almost desperate, the way he slaps down some sketch paper and starts to scribble random scenes.

For twenty minutes, forty five minutes, an hour, Louis works without hesitation. His hands move on their own, creating page upon page of different drawings.

Eventually, the thought comes to him. If he’s going to put his burst of inspiration to use, Louis’ going to have to paint something. All of his best work comes from acrylic and oil, and Louis’ fingers itch when the thought crosses his mind. He hasn’t painted something worthwhile in so long.

Carefully tucking away all of his drawings, Louis heads over to his chest full of paint and begins to dig through, looking for colors that strike him. Some of them are nice, especially his old favorites, but after a few minutes of searching and the pull of his brows together in frustration, Louis can’t find what he’s looking for.

And, as much as he hates to do it while he’s most inspired and willing to work, Louis decides that he’s got to run to the shop for more colors or he’ll never be happy with what he creates from this burst. He’s got to get the best paint that money will buy.

This has to be perfect.

So, he runs to his room and throws on whatever he sees first. His jeans are all torn and not fit for the weather outside, but his thoughts are so preoccupied that he wears them without worry. There’s a scarf and some gloves on his dresser, there from the last time he decided to head out in the snow. Whatever flannel he finds first is what he decides to throw on over his shirt.

When he runs into the hall and out into the street, Louis doesn’t think about whether he locked his apartment door or if he turned the heater off. He’s so caught up in the moment that everything goes hazy, just like the snowy skies.  
  
There are a million thoughts running through Louis' mind when he gets to the shop, from all the art that he wants to create to what type of color scheme would look best with each drawing. Should he use acrylics or oil for the portrait of two young lovers that he’s going to create? What angle should he set the point of view from in the piece he’s going to work on first thing? Would it be best to incorporate a touch of aesthetic into it, or stick to his natural realism?

Louis can’t lose this inspiration, relies to desperately on creating something that’ll get him out of the gutter. This is the first time in months that he’s felt the least bit alive, felt purpose in doing something other than sitting around and withering away in his apartment.

There’s only one cashier up front, tapping away on her phone, and Louis can’t see any other customers around--not that he would acknowledge them if he did.

Heading straight for the crafts aisle, Louis completely forgoes a basket and begins shuffling through the different paints and brushes that he sees, stacking different products in his arms. He crinkles his nose in disgust at some disgusting shade of red, but feels his stomach tug when he sets sights on the most amazing shade of yellow that he’s ever seen.

Louis gets so caught up in looking at the colors, not paying attention to the time or his surroundings or much of anything other than the thoughts in his own head, that he doesn’t realize someone is behind him. Right when he opens a tin of black paint, swabbing a finger through the creamy liquid to check the pigment of it, he missteps and finds himself tripping over the person’s foot.

He turns, mid-fall, and everything goes dizzy.

The paint can drops from his hands and pours all down his own front and the front of the stranger. Louis lands on his arse, and everything in his arms topples to the ground. Some of the acrylics burst open on impact, and Louis’ screaming mind comes to a deafening silence.

He only takes a moment to sit in shock.

“Oh, shitting fuck,” Louis swears, face heating as he scrambles to gather all the bottles of acrylic paint that he can reach. The stranger is just standing there above him, arms outstretched as if he’s in shock, frozen in place. Louis doesn’t bother looking up, knows that he’s fucked up massively and is expecting an earful.

There’s no time for it, though, because he has ideas that need to be planted on paper before he has a chance to lose his mindset, go back to the dark corners of his mind that have kept him out of business for so long.

“I’m so sorry, mate,” Louis says to the man’s feet, capping a pink tube that’s managed to bust open. The can of black that he was carrying is now across the stranger’s kneecaps, dripping from the floral design that lays there. “I didn’t see you behind me, and I’m in such a hurry.”

Pressing the palm of his hand against the lid in an attempt to close the can, Louis finally allows himself to look up, and his movements immediately come to a slow, shocking halt.

The man, who Louis’ managed to completely rumple in the span of four seconds, is quite definitely one of the most attractive people that Louis has ever seen, even from the angle he’s looking up from. With a pointed nose and an angular jaw, lean and muscular build with hair gelled to the nines, Louis’ looking at the son of Adonis himself. His eyes are striking, from even feet away, and it’s almost like he’s in a hypnotic state staring up at them.

Louis should be terrified, waiting for the man to snap. He’s dressed like he’s straight from the runway, and even though Louis’ specialty is artistry he can tell expensive when he sees it. The man’s suit, pattern upon pattern of pink and white with flowers embroidered throughout the whole of it, looks as though it’s worth hundreds, if not more. It’s been ruined to the point of no saving, all at the hands of some stranger, and the guy is just watching him, face a mix of shock and something else.

“Oh, God,” Louis says, forgetting about the paint and the time and how badly he needs to get home. The only thing on his mind is this guy and how mind-blowingly beautiful he is, from aesthetically to physically. He’s a fool, useless and always thinking of the wrong things. “I am so, so sorry.”

It hits Louis all at once when he stands up, leveling with the guy who’s still half a head taller than him. He’s straight from a Disney movie, a prince who was dropped in the wrong universe. Louis’ mouth goes dry, whole body tensing up.

“I, uhm,” he says, glancing from the guy’s face to his shoes, then back. There’s paint splattered throughout his whole person, and he’s still just standing there, watching Louis with a look that can’t be deciphered as good or bad or something between. “I genuinely didn’t meant to do that.”

The guy quirks a brow, looking down at himself with outstretched arms. He holds out one foot, and his shoe is half orange now. For half a second Louis thinks that the silence is building up to a big blow out, but then the guy is laughing, out of nowhere.

With a full on cackle, his eyes crinkle at the edges, his voice echoing throughout the supercenter. There’s no one around them, just aisle upon aisle of crafts and paint and beads, and the guy is laughing like he’s just been told the funniest joke of the century.

Louis’ eyes go wide and he steps back a bit, making some room between the stranger and himself. He’s absolutely mad, acting as though he hasn’t just been doused in paint that’s staining his clothes as they stand.

“Are you alright, mate?” Louis asks, hesitantly. His arms are still full of the bottles, and he tightens his grip on them, ready to make a run if they guy loses it.

The stranger calms down instantly, stifling himself by shaking his head and clapping his hand to his mouth. He looks at Louis and when he glances down, sees that Louis’ backed away, he immediately goes throws his hands up in surrender.

“Oh, my bad,” he says, waving his hands. “I didn’t mean to scare you, just. This is hilarious.”

Louis’ brows furrow immediately, and he’s half tempted to pinch himself. It’s not funny, not one bit, and his face is burning red because he’s just made a complete fool of himself by dropping loads of paint across one of the most handsome men in the country. This has to be a nightmare, no way it could be actually happening.

“Are you alright, mate?” Louis repeats.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” the stranger says. “Are you alright?”

“Don’t ask me if I’m alright,” Louis says. He buckles down, inhaling deeply. “I’ve just completely ruined your suit. You’re supposed to be furious, which I would completely understand. I’m so beyond sorry.”

The guy snorts, shaking his hand. He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his pants, leaning his weight onto one hip as if everything is casual and cool. “Would you like me to be angry?”

“No, of course not,” Louis says. “You’re supposed to be, though.”

“Listen,” he says, taking a step closer. “I’m not angry. Accidents happen.”

Louis’ slightly uncomfortable, because this guy is too attractive to be so nice. He’s wearing something that looks as though it costs as much as his month’s rent, and it’s three in the morning. There are so many questions to be asked, like who this guy thinks he is, but Louis’ not sure if the man is mentally unstable for being so nonchalant or if he’s just naturally cool.

To top it off, Louis’ got to get going. He has things to do, has to try and put his spur of the moment inspiration to use.

He’s about to say something when the guy interrupts, cheeks dimpling when he holds out a hand and smiles big. “I’m Harry.”

Louis’ jaw drops, lips parting to let a noise of utter shock fall from them. He’s being so polite, so nice and smooth about it all. It’s only making Louis more worked up for some reason.

With cheeks gone red and a stomp of his foot, Louis shakes his head, staring at Harry’s hand and then back at his face. It’s too gorgeous, shines too bright. Louis is beyond confused.

“I’m not shaking your hand,” Louis says, huffing. He shakes his head, shifts his weight so that he’s able to free his right hand. He reaches up behind his ear and pulls out the sharpie that he’s got tucked behind there.

“You’re obviously having some trouble comprehending what’s just happened,” Louis says, flicking the top off. He steps closer to Harry, gets right up in the space of his hand so that he can scribble his phone number onto his palm. Harry doesn’t say a word, just watches with eyebrows raised and a smirk on his lips.

“This,” Louis says, tapping the tip of the marker beside the first digit that he’s written. “This is my phone number. Feel free to call me or something in the morning when you’re sane in the head. Right now you’ve got to be in shock or something, and I’m in a bit of a rush.”

Louis steps back, caps the pen and shoves it behind his ear.

It looks as though Harry is going to speak, lips parting and hand raising to gesture. Before he’s got the chance, Louis gives a quick wave, a small, “Sorry again, but I’ve got to go,” and brushes past him in a blur. He almost runs to the checkout, handing over whatever cash he’s managed to muster up, and he’s on the way home as fast as he left the store.

He knows it rude, that he should have stayed to help the guy out, but Louis’ got things to do. If Harry calls later, Louis will do whatever he’s capable of to help him out.

Right now, though, Louis doesn’t want to think about how he’s just met the most attractive man in all of Great Britain. He wants to paint, to forget about how much of a struggle his life has been in the past months.

~

When he gets home, mind cluttered with thoughts and head throbbing with the sheer force of how hard he’s focusing on a million things at once, Louis doesn’t bother to pull off his scarf or coat or boots. He pours his supplies onto the ground, rifling through them as if he knows what he’s going to work on first.

A guessing game, allowing his subconscious to take control, Louis grabs at whatever he sees first. Some green and peach, a little cherry red and dusty rose. He pulls out his easel, plants himself down in front of the blank canvas. Without a tune in the background, a light on overhead to illuminate his work, Louis begins dragging his brush across the space.

He doesn’t think about it, becomes so completely lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t even process what he’s creating in front of himself. His mind is stuck on the movie, on a memory of the first time he got drunk, on the man at the store. There’s too much too think about, and Louis isn’t able to

It doesn’t feel like time is moving, like the sun is coming up and the world is waking. Before he knows it, though, Louis’ sweating through his winter clothes and the room around him is filled with the soft morning hue, the streets filled with the noise of bustling traffic. He’s still painting, has colors staining the wrists of his jacket.

Louis only stops once he’s so light in the head that he’s afraid he’ll fall faint and knock over his art. He’s hungry and tired, so exhausted from his mind running wild that he just drops his brush and stands from his stool.

He kicks off his boots in the middle of the room, drops his coat somewhere between the bed and his doorway. Covered in sweat and paint, head throbbing and dizzy, Louis crawls up onto his bed and forces himself to stop thinking. His eyelids are painted with the horizon when he closes them, and he falls asleep not really sure what he’s just created.

Louis wakes up in the evening, mouth tasting like chalk and skin sticky with sweat. The room feels frozen, air so cold that when he breathes out he's surprised to not see a puff of fog, and when he pushes himself up to sit he immediately reaches out for his blanket.

There's a dull ache in the back of his head, like his brain has overworked itself in its tirade of painting and trying to hold onto inspiration. His motivation to work is still there, only slightly, mostly dulled by the fact that he’s slept away most of his adrenaline. Louis could still paint something though, still has an array of scenes that he wants to bring to life on canvas and paper.

His bedside alarm is blinking, hasn't worked in weeks. Louis’ too busy or too lazy to reset it, so he settles for fishing his phone out of his pocket to look at the time.  

The battery is almost dead when he holds it up, and the brightness only worsens his headache. There are three messages, all sent at different times from the same unknown number. Louis types in his code and pulls them up, eyes still bleary with sleep.

_this is harry styles you spilled paint on my gucci suit_

Louis thinks for a moment, and when he remembers the night before, how he made a fool of himself in front of the most gorgeous human to cross the earth, his heart tugs in an uncomfortable way. It comes spilling back like a wave hitting shore, how the man--Harry--was so unbelievably beautiful that it left Louis in awe.

_helllloooooo is this the paint man?????? you wrote ur number on my hand pretty crappily (no offense) so i had to guess the last digit….i think it was a 4???_

He feels sick, embarrassment filling Louis to the brim. Some force in the universe must hate him, must be out to get him for some crime that he's committed in a past life.

_i don't know if this is the wrong number or what but i'm not mad i just want to talk so if you could reply that would be greaaat!_

Louis’ going to have to respond. The last message was sent less than two hours ago, and Harry is probably sitting on the edge of his seat waiting. It would be so easy to ignore it, pretend that he never received a message because he has no sure way of having to see the guy again. Louis was raised right though, was taught to treat other people the way he wants to be treated.

If someone ruined his very expensive suit, he would want them to pay for it. So, even if he’s got no way to pay for dry cleaning, has no definite means to fix the mess he's made, Louis taps on the keyboard and lets out a heavy sigh.

**Hey mate sorry I was busy all day , but it's definitely the right number!! I’m really sorry about having to run off last night but I’m willing to meet to try and figure out a way to fix this situation if you want. My name is Louis by the way!**

Pressing send it a lot harder than he imagined, and once he's done it he has to set his phone down and crawl off the bed. His feet are still socked and he can feel the hardened paint across his knuckles. Before he lets himself get back to work, see what all he's managed to come up with in the hours he spent working last night, Louis decides that he's got to have a shower.

He's a mess, shedding his clothes as he goes, letting them land wherever they may. His bathroom is small, not even a window to shed light in, and when he climbs into the shower and lets the steam fill up his lungs, Louis can feel the past week washing down the drain.

~

When Louis finds his footing again and brings himself to leave the warm, cleansing confines of his bathroom, he heads straight to his easel. It’s not like him to blackout while sober or to forget possibly life changing events, like creating a muse driven work in the early hours of the morning, and all of his nerves are on edge when he approaches the wooden stand.

The minute he comes into view of it, his stomach drops and every ounce of humility that Louis has ever felt comes wracking into his body. He doesn’t understand what it is at first, almost confused by the color choice and the layers in which he’s put them. It comes together slowly, at first, and then all at once. As soon as he realizes what he’s created, it’s almost too much.

His subconscious is a bloody traitor, because while Louis feels embarrassed and humiliated, there’s no doubt in his mind that this is one of the best paintings that he has ever brought to life. From the blending he’s done to the smooth and flowing lines along the edges, the portrait makes even Louis feel proud.

He doesn’t understand why his mind had to draw Harry, though. A complete stranger who Louis managed to make the biggest fool of himself in front of, and probably the most gorgeous human being to walk the earth, it is completely mortifying that Louis’ psyche decided to put all of his imaginative and creative energy toward a painting of him.

Louis stares at it for what seems like hours, so enthralled by how he was able to create such a detailed and interesting piece. He spends a lot of the time trying to cool his cheeks and look at it from an artistic standpoint--think about how a muse can arise from anything, and how he should be glad that something so beautiful came from such a cringe worthy situation.

He manages to calm himself down and be happy for all of ten minutes before he remembers that Harry has probably messaged him back and will want to meet.

That makes Louis lose it. If he has to see Harry, look him in the eyes and relive one of the most awkward moments of his life, Louis isn’t sure that he could survive. Everytime he looks at the painting he’ll have to think of the breathtaking man who managed to so deeply impact Louis’ inner thoughts.

He debates for some time, whether to bother looking at Harry’s texts or to throw away his artwork and pretend the whole thing never happened.

Louis is too good of a person to look past it, though. He could never live with himself if he ignored someone who he wronged, accidentally or otherwise. At the same time, though, he can’t stand the way he goes hot to his ears when he stares at the painting. He wants to deal with Harry and fix what he can, and move on with his life.

It isn’t easy coming to a conclusion. Louis feels an ache in his heart when he has to lift the painting from its seat and put it at the back of the room, behind all of the other discarded paintings that bring him nothing but shame. He can’t bare to look at the painting’s eyes, can’t stand the way it makes him groan in hurt at his subconscious’ betrayal.

Once he’s got it tucked away and gives himself a moment to breathe, Louis finds his phone where he left it on his bed and opens his messages. He’s got one unread from Harry, and it’s much too friendly for someone who’s in his shoes.

_no worries :-) if you want we can meet at the Waffle House by the shop from last night? i dunno where you live but it’s hopefully close enough…..how’s 6 pm friday??? i’m kind of busy up until then_

Louis groans, and he has to force his fingers to type out a response. He’s got no reason to not make it, what with having no life outside of his art.

**Sounds good mate. Maybe bring the dry cleaning bill & we can talk about it???**

Surprisingly, Harry reads it as soon as Louis sends it. In less than a minute he’s typing a reply, and Louis doesn’t have time to put his phone down before it comes through.

_okay we’ll see :-))) we can figure something out haha. see u friday!!!!_

Louis shuts off the screen and falls into his sheets, groaning into the comforter until he finds it within himself to try and ignore the way his heart is beating in his throat. He’ll be fine, no matter what his mind is shouting. After he pays this bill and forgets that Harry exists, everything will go back to normal and Louis will continue to be the struggling artist that he’s been for so many months.

~

Louis is dead to the world until Friday comes around. He can’t bring himself to paint anything else, and the few sketches that he pulls out look more like a child’s scribbles than something from a professional artist with a degree. It makes him feel so ashamed that he buries himself under his covers and forgets to come out for hours on end.

The only reason he bothers to shower and throw on some clean clothes is because Harry messages him on Friday morning, much too eager for someone in his position.

_are we still on for today? :)_

Reading over the message for a solid thirty minutes, Louis can’t decide whether this Harry character is clinically insane or facing a prolonged psychotic break. No person in their right mind would be as enthusiastic as he is. Then again, Louis’ rarely in his right mind, so who is he to judge?

He hasn’t been out of bed in over twenty four hours, but Louis sends back a thumbs up emoji and makes himself shower. As soon as he’s out of the warm, soothing confines of his bathroom, Louis regrets every decision that he’s ever made in his life that led up to this moment.

Imagining every single scenario in which Harry murders Louis or throws a fit, embarrassing him in front of every person in the vicinity, Louis would rather crawl back under his covers and hide from the world for the rest of his life than go outside. He has a conscience though, and there is no way that he would allow himself to stand Harry up. 

So, when the time comes for Louis to head out, he dresses himself as he so often does, just grabbing whatever seems clean and in reach. The restaurant isn’t that far away and Louis can’t help but wonder why someone who seems as poised and posh as Harry does would want to meet at such a place, but he figures that worrying the idea will only make him more anxious.

Not bothering to give himself a once over, Louis forces himself to put one foot in front of the other and leave as soon as the clock hits half five. Stepping out into the winter chill is surreal.

~

When Louis arrives, Waffle House is almost completely empty. There’s a young couple, maybe in their late teens, sharing a booth in the far corner, giggling as they steal food from one another’s plate. An elderly man is standing by the jukebox, staring at the list of songs so intently that he’s frozen in place. The wait staff are goofing off behind the counter, only one person cooking as the rest build a teepee from straws.

He lets the door swing closed behind him, and the bell above jingles. Only a few people look up, and one of the waitresses shoots him a big smile. “Good evening, sweetheart. Table for one?”

Louis’ nose has gone runny from the cold, so he pinches the bridge with his forefingers as he gives a small cough, shaking his head. “Two, actually. He should be here any minute.”

“Okay, well. Sit anywhere you like. I’ll be over in a minute,” She says, returning her attention to the teepee. Louis idly strolls to the corner opposite the couple, and he can’t help but wonder why anyone would willingly come here.

As he waits for Harry, the nervous feeling in his gut grows seemingly unbearable. Louis thinks of his already struggling bank account, and the idea of having to turn over whatever he has left to pay for a suit that probably costs more than he has makes his throat close up. He’s utterly fucked.

Half-tempted to leave, Louis is about to throw up all over himself when the doorbell jingles again. His eyes shoot across the room, and when they meet Harry’s everything goes slow again. It’s like a pang in his chest and a rush of adrenaline to the heart, watching the fluid movements of his steps and the smile that grows on his lips when he sees Louis.

Just as beautiful as before, albeit dressed down, Harry is a walking masterpiece. He’s every reason that someone becomes an artist, the beauty that one hopes to encompass in the work that they create. Louis’ mouth feels dry, and suddenly he wants nothing more than to make a break for it.

“Louis, is it?” Harry asks when he comes up close, holding a hand out for Louis to grab.

He does so, hesitantly, and feels a chill run up his arm when the two touch. “Yeah, hey. Feel free to sit down,” Louis tells him, not bothering to force a smile.

“I’m glad that you made it,” Harry says, sliding into the seat across from Louis. He leans forward with his elbows on the table, and Louis’ never been as observant of body language as he is with Harry around. “I was kind of afraid you would bail, no offense.”

Louis scoffs. Obviously he wanted to, and the fact that Harry had expected it only makes Louis regret not doing it more. Screw his conscience.

“I would never,” Louis lies, and this time he forces a smile. “So, should we get to business?”

Before Harry can speak, the waitress from earlier, whose nametag reads Dolly, appears beside them with too much pizzas. She’s bubbly and quick on her feet, hair pulled up with a rainbow colored scrunchie. “Hello, fellas! What can I get ‘ya to drink?”

Watching Harry give the young girl a sweet look, answering her with such a nice tone that he doesn’t seem like he could hurt a fly, fills Louis with a confusing amount of endearment. He hushes it down and clears his throat, answering after Harry with a, “Just water, please.”

Dolly leaves, and the conversation continues. “So, Harry,” Louis says, nervously folding his hands. “First off, I am so sorry about the other night. I didn’t mean to rush out on you. It’s just—I’m an artist, and I needed to buy some paint for a project. I really didn’t have time to stick around.”

“You’re an artist?” Harry asks, ignoring the rest of Louis’ statement.

“Uhm, yeah.”

Harry sits up at that. “That’s so cool. What kind of stuff do you do?”

Scratching at his chin, Louis feels extremely confused. This is off topic, and Louis wants to get it over with as soon as possible, but he figures there’s no harm to be done in indulging in whatever it is that Harry wants to talk about. It doesn’t look as though he’s a murderer, so Louis can handle small conversation. It’s fine.

“I like to paint, I guess,” Louis says, eyes scanning over Harry’s entire face when he makes a noise of  delight. “Sometimes I just sketch stuff for fun, but all my best stuff is painted. I’m not very good, though.”

Harry’s brows raise in a look of disbelief. “I find that kind of hard to believe. Someone _who’s not very good_ wouldn’t go out and buy every ounce of paint that Walmart has to offer.”

Snorting, Louis shakes his head and says, “You don’t know me. I could be buying all that paint for any number of reasons.” He feels Harry’s eyes fixed on him, and Louis’ cheeks warm at the attention.

“Do you have any photos, then?” Harry asks. “Of something you’ve painted, I mean. I’d love to believe you, but I can just tell that you’re much more talented than you’re letting off.”

_What?_

Louis isn’t an idiot, and he can tell that Harry is toying with him by the face that he makes and the charming tone that he’s speaking in. Thing is, Louis can’t understand why Harry is having at him. It’s the same as the day that they met, when he came across as soon cool and unaffected, pleasant in nature.

He isn’t supposed to be amiable, though. Harry is meant to be upset and telling Louis off because of how much it’ll cost to fix the mess he made.

“What are you doing?” Louis asks, a bite to his tone and face reddening as the seconds pass.

Harry just looks at him, curious, and after clearing his throat he says, “I’m trying to ask about your art.”

“Why?”

Harry sits up straighter. Then, with a small smirk, “Well. You’re interesting, that’s all.”

There’s something in his voice, in the way that he’s so shamelessly smooth, that makes Louis’ skin crawl with heat despite how much he’d like to be annoyed. This man is nothing like he looks.

“Thanks, I guess.” Louis clears his throat, watching as the waitress comes back to their table with their drinks.

She takes their orders, momentarily stalling the conversation, and Louis’ stomach fills with nerves as Harry orders. He’s unsure, is all, and this meeting is going nothing like any of the scenarios he thought up in his head.

Once she’s gone and the two men remain, Louis scratches at the back of his neck and tries to avoid eye contact for as long as possible.

“So,” He says. “Can we talk about your suit, please?”

Harry huffs out a breath, finally seeming the slightest bit flustered himself, and he settles on Louis with a more serious look. “Are you clueless or straight? I honestly can’t tell.”

Louis squints, thrown off. “Excuse me? What the hell are you getting at?”

“I’m coming onto you!” Harry says, a little too loud.

And, like, Louis’ not an oblivious person. In fact, he likes to think of himself as being rather observant. There’s no reason for Harry to be interested in him, however, and as soon as Harry has said the words, Louis is going wide eyed and red all up his neck and across his cheekbones.

When Louis doesn’t respond right away, Harry continues. “I don’t care about that stupid suit, Louis. I’m a model—it wasn’t even mine in the first place. If I really cared about it, I would have handled it over the phone or something. I asked you out for dinner because I think you’re really bloody attractive and I’d like to get to know you.”

Louis has to gulp on air. “I don’t understand.”

Harry gives a small, gentle smile, and lets out a small chuckle. “When we met the other night, I was coming up to talk to you. Right before you dropped all your paint on me I was about to bother you with some horrible pick up line.”

Louis’ head feels fuzzy, like he can’t believe what’s happening. Faintly aware of the chill in the air and the hum of the jukebox across the room, Louis’ first instinct is to glance around. He takes a second to compose his thoughts, then finds Harry’s eyes again.

“So, you’re into me?” Louis asks.

Harry nods.

“And you don’t want me to pay to have your suit cleaned?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, Louis. I just want to, like, talk.”

To say that he’s immediately for the idea would be a lie. Louis’ thrown for a loop, because it’s been so long since anyone wanted to be with him. Since anyone was openly interested about him. On another note, Harry is the most attractive person that Louis has ever seen, and it’s all kind of hard to believe.

Still, something inside of him is telling him to go for it.

“I. Uhm. Okay, then,” Louis finally replies, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

He knows he looks a mess, hair sticking up from the winter wind and lips chapped from the air. Somehow, Harry still wants to get to know him, and that’s enough to make him put himself out there.

“Then, no,” Louis says, remembering the question. “I don’t have any photos of my art. I keep it all at home in my living room. No one really sees it.”

Harry’s lips form a small smile, and he leans in like he did before. This time, Louis joins him, hesitantly, and finds himself pressing forward, closer.

They talk for some time, about all sorts of things. Harrys asks more about Louis’ paintings, more intrigued than anything, and Louis learns about Harry’s job as a model and why he felt that wearing a Gucci suit to Walmart, of all places, was a good idea. When the waitress brings their food, Louis barely touches it, still on edge from how odd the whole situation seems to be.

Surprisingly, though, Louis has some fun with Harry. It’s been so long since he did anything other than worry about his work, and being out of his apartment feels amazing. Being out of his apartment with Harry feels amazing.

For all that he looks, Harry is so different from what Louis expected. He’s deep, Louis learns, and extremely silly to the point that he has Louis rolling his eyes every single time Harry makes a joke.

It’s so amazing and Louis is having a surprisingly fun time, so when the sky falls dark outside and the next shift of workers comes in, there’s an unhappy feeling settling in his stomach.

They’ve long since finished their food, plates drying with syrup and pulp sitting at the bottom of Louis’ glass, and he has to stop himself from continuing the conversation. Harry’s talking about Orca whales, how they’re such an underrated species, and Louis eventually has to hold his hand up as to halt him.

“Harry,” He says, unhappy frown settling on his face. “I’m sorry to do this, but it’s getting kind of late.”

Harry glances around, and it’s like he only just realizes how long they’ve been talking for. His face flitters over with confusion, followed by a heavy sigh and small smirk.

“You’re right, you’re right.” He runs a hand through his already loose quiff. “I’ve got an idea.”

Louis quirks a brow, subconsciously following the movement of Harry licking his lips. “What’s that?”

“How about we go back to yours, let these nice workers close up for the night, and you show me some of your amazing art.” Harry says it as if it’s the most casual thing in the world, as if he isn’t practically asking for something more.

As soon as the words are out Louis’ brain goes into overdrive, because no amount of fun could have prepared him for such an offer. He hasn’t been with someone in that way in so long, has been so preoccupied with his work that there’s never any time to seek it out. Harry is offering it, though—practically throwing himself at Louis, when this whole situation began in misunderstanding.

It takes a solid minute, Louis’ lips parted in shock and thoughts running wild, and the first thing that he  can think to say is, “Waffle House doesn’t close.”

Harry cackles at that, loud and obnoxious. Somehow, it’s still one of the most attractive noises Louis has ever heard, and his stomach flutters with nerves when Harry calms himself down and fixes his eyes on Louis’, gentle and mischievous. “I know. I was just trying to get you to take me back to yours, babe.”

Louis knows that. Hearing him say it, however, outright and blunt, makes everything go woozy. The thought of it, of taking this handsome man home and to bed, has a warm feeling growing inside of him.

Still, he’s nervous to the idea, and he can’t help when he asks, “Are you going to murder me? Have you been lying the whole time, and this is your way of taking out your rage because I ruined your very expensive suit? Because, I would really prefer you didn’t kill me. I promise I’ll pay for your suit, just.”

“I’m not going to murder you, oh my God.” Harry laughs, exasperated, and he moves to stand. Holding out his right hand for Louis to take and picking up the check with his left, he says, “I just want to see some of your art. And, other things, if you’d like. You’ve peaked my interest. You’re, like, really cool.”

Louis snorts, because he’s anything but cool. He takes Harry’s hand anyways, and the entire time he’s paying and they’re walking out to catch a cab, he keeps hold of Harry’s hand and tries not to think of how weak in the knees he feels.

~

It’s awkward bringing someone into his mess of an apartment. The neighborhood is sketchy, his neighbors are loud, there’s paint cans and piles of paper all around the floor. If Louis had been expecting company he would have cleaned up a bit beforehand, but this whole thing was sprung on him rather quickly.

Harry doesn’t seem to mind, though, mostly switching between staring in awe at Louis’ art and staring in awe at Louis, himself. It should be uncomfortable, having so much attention on this intimate part of his life, but Louis quite likes the way Harry watches him like he’s the most expensive thing in the universe, like he can’t quite believe Louis exists.

When Harry stumbles upon the stacks of paintings that Louis has set to the side of his living room, in the very back corner behind his easel and work desk, Louis strolls into the kitchen and puts the kettle on.

“You did all this?” Harry asks absently, out of sight. There’s shuffling coming from the room, what Louis assumes to be Harry digging through his things.

He grabs two mugs from the cupboard and sets them on the counter. “Yeah, unfortunately.” He laughs, self-deprecation heavy in his voice, and steps back into the doorway to see Harry.

“Your so talented, Louis,” he says, holding up a painting that Louis did of his younger sister a while back. It’s not his best work, but Harry’s admiring it like it’s the Mona Lisa. “Like, this is unreal.”

Louis can’t help but flush at the attention. It isn’t every day that someone goes out of their way to make him feel admired, make him feel like his art and struggle is worth it. Scratching at the back of his neck, Louis smiles at the ground. “I, uhm. Thanks. You’re being too nice.”

“I’m serious,” Harry says, setting the canvas down. He begins shuffling through the rest, working his way through the stack, appreciating each piece before moving to the next.

Louis is so sidetracked by watching the man in front of him that he completely forgets his dilemma from earlier. The painting he did most recently is at the very back, just waiting to be seen.

It isn’t until Harry is upon it, slowing his movements and staring down, that Louis pulls his attention and awe away from the gorgeous man in front of him. Harry’s whole demeanor changes, from that of pure curiosity and amazement to a still, unreadable one.

Louis’ brows scrunch together, confused. Then, after a beat, Harry slowly pulls the painting of himself up into Louis’ view and the world turns upside down.

Like a scene straight from one of Louis’ nightmares, his gut wrenches in embarrassment and his thoughts start running wild again. What is Harry thinking, finding a portrait of himself in the house of a stranger? Is he petrified? Will he go running for the hills at any second?

“Oh my God,” Louis says, stepping back. His face is flushed bright red, and even though it feels as though his throat is closing up from how mortified he feels, Louis manages to say, “It’s not what you think.”

Harry stares at the painting for another second, his profile to Louis so that his face is only half visible. After the initial shock of it, he finally turns to face Louis completely, and he doesn’t look angry.

Still, Louis takes another step back and shakes his head. He can’t even begin to express what he’s feeling.

“Is this me?” Harry asks, pointing at it.

Despite being as embarrassed as he is, Louis nods. “I, uhm. I don’t know what to say. I promise it’s not what you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking?” Harry asks. He’s still holding the painting but he makes to step toward Louis, very unthreatening.

Louis gulps. “Well,” he says, crossing his arms as he tries not to come across as psychotic, because he knows that’s what he seems. “You’re thinking that I’m some stalker who has a shrine dedicated to you, or something. I’m not, though.”

“You’re not?” Harry asks, voice almost cocky, taking another step closer. “Why have you painted me, then?”

Louis’ right heel hits the wall behind him and he leans into it. There’s nowhere left to go, and even though Harry’s got what seems to be a smirk on his face for some reason, there’s still guilt in the pit of Louis’ stomach.

“I didn’t mean to paint you,” Louis says on a shaky exhale. “It was an accident. I zoned out, and it was right after I met you the first time, and I guess my mind was stuck on you.”

Harry stares at him for a minute, just scanning over the sight in front of him. Then he looks back at the painting in his hand, and he smiles.

“Not to sound like a narcissist, Louis, but this is probably the best on of your paintings that I’ve seen.”

It’s a smack to the jaw. They’re still a good ten feet apart, but Harry fills that distance easily. Before Louis realizes it, Harry is right up in his space, smiling like he hasn’t got a problem in the world.

“What?” Louis asks, ignoring the way he can feel Harry’s breath on his cheeks. “You’re not freaked out?”

Harry snorts, and he places his free hand on Louis’ jaw. It sends a shudder throughout his whole body, Harry’s hand warm at the touch, and there’s a small part of Louis that wants to melt into it. “No, I’m not mad. Honestly, it’s extremely flattering and kind of hot.”

“Hot?” Louis asks, bewildered.

Harry sets the painting on the nearest surface, a coffee table that’s barely standing with the years of wear and tear on it. He returns his full attention to Louis and presses both of his hands against Louis’ neck this time, cradling his head and he comes close. “Very hot. May I?”

Louis doesn’t think on it, nodding on instinct. There are a hundred reasons why he shouldn’t kiss Harry, why he shouldn’t do what he knows they’re about to do. It’s been so long, though, and every nerve in Louis’ body is telling him to give in and let Harry take whatever he wants. The man is so beautiful and kind, making Louis feel like he’s worth a damn.

He doesn’t regret a thing the second that their lips touch. Harry’s mouth is pink and wet and all consuming, making Louis’ knees feel like jelly. It’s so warm, unlike the winter air outside, and soon enough Louis is fighting Harry for more. Neither of them come up for air, just pressing closer and licking into one another’s mouth.

When Louis’ hands find Harry’s hair, he can’t help but gasp at the groan that Harry emits. It’s much too quick, how worked up he seems to get just off Harry stroking his neck and biting at his bottom lip. Out of nowhere it hits him, how much he really wants this—how badly he wants Harry to make him forget that it’s freezing outside and he’s becoming a failure with his work.

“Do you wanna?” Louis asks after a moment, leaning his head against the wall to take a breath. Harry stay on him, mouth moving to his cheeks and his neck, working his spit wet kisses into the heated skin.

Harry smiles against him, murmuring, “Wanna what?”

“You know what.” Louis’ right hand falls from Harry’s scalp, moving to hold his waist.

Harry kisses at his neck for a little while longer, making it hard for Louis to breathe, before he pulls away to look at his eyes. “Yeah, I wanna,” he says, and one of his hands slides down Louis’ front to feel up his growing hard on. “Do you?”

Louis tightens his hands into fists, balling up Harry’s shirt in his grip, and he doesn’t bother answering before he starts tugging the both of them toward the bedroom.

They fall onto Louis’ mattress with an oomph, Louis landing on his back with Harry’s full weight pressing into him. It doesn’t affect how turned on Louis is, though—it only makes him more eager as he rolls his hips up into the pressure that Harry’s supplying.

“What do you want?” Harry asks, adjusting himself so that either of his arms are on the sides of Louis’ head. He presses a quick kiss to Louis’ lips, wetting them, before pulling back up so that he can see his face.

Still grinding up on instinct, trying to get some friction where he’s only heating up and wanting it the most, Louis wraps his arms around Harry to try and pull him down. “I don’t care. Whatever you want. Everything.”

Harry smiles, soft and sweet, and he reaches between them to unbutton Louis’ jeans. He shoves his hand inside without warning, wiggling his fingers past the fabric of his brief’s, and circles his fingers loosely around Louis’ dick.

It’s too dry and too cramped, but the way Harry tugs his wrist upward is enough to have goosebumps prickling all across Louis’ skin. He whines into it as Harry goes on, throwing his head back. It’s been so long since anyone touched him like this, since anyone wanted to.

“Louis, babe. Can I fuck you?” Harry asks absently, watching Louis’ features as he works over his dick. “I just. Please? You’re so amazing.”

The words have Louis gasping, so turned on at the idea that his head goes woozy for a second. He thinks for a second, because he knows it’s not a good idea. They don’t know each other that well and have only just gone on their first date.

But, it’s such a nice thought. Louis wants to feel something that he’s been missing, and Harry is pushing him so close to the brink. It’s not that hard for him to say, “Okay, yeah.”

Harry smiles again, and he doesn’t waste another minute to get his mouth back against Louis.

“Do you have anything?” Harry asks between the wet sucks of their lips. “I’ve got a condom, but. Nothing else.”

“A bit presumptuous, aren’t you?” Louis comments, and he means for it to come out more smooth than it does. The words get caught halfway on his teeth, though, and Harry squeezes at his dick and makes his whole body spasm. He can feel it in hit stomach, the way Harry’s tugging at him, making him squirm.

Harry smirks, shaking his head. “Just hoped, is all. In case no one’s told you—you’re really fit.”

“Thanks,” Louis says on a breath, trying not to blush. They’re far past that at this point, though.

In order to grab the lube that hasn’t been touched in months, Louis’ got to pull Harry’s hand off of him. It’s at the back of his night stand drawer, tucked away from disuse. Louis faintly wonders if lube expires, but he doesn’t think on it for long, because when he turns back to the boy on his bed Harry is tugging off his clothes to reveal his chest and thighs.

He’s like a canvas, scattered with tattoos of this and that. Even more stunning than before, Harry is an actual work of art. There’s a butterfly on his belly, and even though his arms and chest are covered, Louis finds himself immediately drawn to the beautiful detail of it.

“Come here, then,” Harry says, thumbing at the waistband of his underwear. The outline of his dick, already so hard and straining against the fabric, has Louis’ mouth watering. “I feel a bit uneven, you being fully dressed.”

“Okay, yeah. Sorry,” Louis says, and he has to bite his tongue when he forces his jeans down his hips and onto the floor.

Harry climbs forward on the bed then, stopping only when he’s right in front of Louis and so close. Tugging on the hem of his sweater, Harry helps Louis pull the material up until it’s over his head and leaving his hair sticking up in the back.

Louis doesn’t bother fixing it, too preoccupied with getting his mouth back on Harry’s. He’s never missed the flavor of someone’s mouth before, has never wanted to completely throw himself into another person. Harry’s bending all of his rules, somehow.

Eager now, Louis reaches down to press the hell of his palm against Harry’s dick, smiling at the way he groans into Louis’ mouth at the feeling.

“Hey, wait.” Harry pulls back, putting his hand against Louis’ wrist to still him. He reaches out with his free hand and tugs Louis onto the bed, and his situates them so that Louis’ on his back with Harry over him, much like before. “Let’s get you ready, yeah? I wanna do this for you, not the other way around.”

It’s much too sweet and very clearly a thing for Harry, making other people feel special and good. Louis doesn’t object, however, and he watches in amazement as Harry works his way down Louis’ body to tug off his briefs.

The cool air stings at his sensitive skin, prickhead red and begging. Harry feels at it immediately, dragging his thumb over the tip and using the slick precome there to add to the glide.

Louis’ hips arch up at it, his entire body aching with how much he wants it. Harry’s got such big hand, and he can’t imagine how good it’ll feel to have his long fingers tucked up inside his arse.

“Shit,” Louis hisses, fingernails digging into the sheets as Harry starts pulling on his dick in earnest, using his spit to make it smoother. He’s so far down the mattress, his face away from Louis’, but Harry looks beyond kissable as he stares up and watches Louis’ reaction.

When he reaches for the lube, hand still wrapped around Louis’ cock, he takes the time to ask, “You sure?” and press a soothing kiss into Louis’ thigh.

It’s unbelievable, the guffaw that Louis lets out. Of course he wants to—he’s sporting a full erection and is splayed out at Harry’s hands. “Oh my God, yes.”

Harry giggles then, and it’s the best noise Louis has ever heard.

Still fucking up into Harry’s grip, everything goes a bit still when Harry finally slicks up his fingers and presses his index inside Louis’ hole in one, smooth movement. It’s not too much and not enough, but Harry keeps his hand on Louis, enough to distract.

For a few moments they go like that, with only one finger in his ass as Harry watches and twists both of his wrists. There’s something sparking within Louis, but it’s much too soon for anything like that.

“Hurry up, Harry,” Louis says, throwing his head back. “I’d like to come sometime this year.”

Harry laughs, cupping Louis’ balls as he works another finger in. “Yes, sir.”

The feel of two is much different than one, and Louis groans when Harry angles his fingers inside and curls them up. His toes dig into Harry’s waist, knees bracing his shoulders. When Louis glances down, he can see that Harry is vaguely grinding into the mattress, not having been touched yet and probably wanting to get off just as much as Louis.

The room is much hotter now, Louis panting and Harry working him up. There’s a line of sweat starting on Louis’ collarbones when Harry finally adds a third finger in.

It’s almost too much, having three of Harry’s big fingers up inside. There’s a burn to it, an ache that starts when Harry scissors his fingers apart and fucks them in. Louis just bites his lip at the feel, wanting to savor the way it hurts. He’s always liked it to hurt the next day, when it leaves him just sore enough that he’ll remember it was real.

“God, Louis,” Harry says, and his voice sounds so foreign to Louis’ ears that he has to look up. “You’re so bloody fit.”

Louis groans, shaking his head. There’s so much to say to that, an argument to be had about how Harry’s one to talk, but no words come out of Louis’ mouth except for _please_ and _c’mon_.

They only bother with Harry’s fingers for a while more, once the burn has turned sweet and Louis’ thighs are trembling. Harry tries a fourth, just to be sure, and Louis feels so full after only a second of it that the sparks in his belly start to spread and he has to grip at the base of his dick to keep from coming.

“Fuck me, Harry,” Louis says, begging. He reaches out, trying to pull Harry up. “I know you’re aching for it.”

Harry nods, his eyes gone dark and his lip bitten red in wait. He clambers onto his knees and tugs his underwear down, his dick coming free and looking so painful. It’s shimmering at the tip, wet, and when Harry lets himself jerk it off for a few moments to relieve the pressure, Louis’ thighs open on instinct.

“God,” Harry mumbles, eyeing over Louis’ whole body and stopping on the curve of his prick. He reaches for the condom and rolls it on as quick as he can, body shuddering as he slicks up his own.

He crowds in then, immediately moving to kiss Louis. Their mouths glide together, licking into one another. Harry’s teeth bite into Louis’ bottom lip, and it has him gasping and wrapping his legs around Harry’s hips, wanting.

“Ready?” Harry asks, his chest on Louis’ chest, his hips hands framing Louis’ head.

Louis nods, his arms hugging Harry closer. He presses their lips back together as Harry lines up and starts pressing in. It takes everything in Louis not to talk or moan, to just let Harry slide in further and further until he’s settling his hips against Louis’ body.

His dick is so big and nice, and even though they’d used four fingers beforehand it’s much deeper and thicker, filling Louis up to the point that it aches. They’re both panting at the feeling, and Louis’ arms wrap tighter around Harry, almost trying to pull him in.

Slowly, Harry eventually drags his dick out, making Louis’ jaw drop and a moan fall from his lips. His whole body is so warm on top of Louis, and Louis’ dick is caught between their bellies. When Harry grinds forward, so slow that it makes Louis’ head fall back and his chest go tight, the friction of it all only builds.

It takes a minute, building up a pace. Louis is panting the whole time, his entire body tingling with how good it feels and how badly he wants to come. Harry insists on going slow, though, not wanting to risk hurting him.

When they get there, Harry’s hips rolling up into Louis’ body and fucking him so well, it’s so worth the wait. Every thrust has Louis moaning out, despite Harry’s big, goofy smirk. It’s such a good feeling, being so full and so tended to.

Sweat starts to form between their bodies, making Louis’ prick slippery, rubbing between the both of them until Louis’ writhing against the covers and Harry. It feels like no time has passed and Louis is on the verge of coming, but he can’t even be ashamed because of how good it all feels.

Harry lazily kisses Louis as his rhythm starts to slow, and he reaches down to get ahold of Louis’ cock. He starts tugging, no practice to it as he drags his lube wet hand over the skin.

Louis wants to feel bad, but there’s no way that he can. With the ache in his arse and the spark of having his dick played with, Louis’ orgasm hits him all at once and out of nowhere. Still grinding down on Harry’s dick, Louis moans out into the room, cock spurting all over the two of them.

It feels like ages pass, like he’s floating through space and time doesn’t exist. He only comes to when Harry kisses him back to life, hand still holding Louis’ dick as it softens.

He hasn’t come yet and is still thrusting up into Louis’ ass, not as far along as Louis was. He’s got a good pace, is still chasing down his own orgasm. And, Louis lets Harry fuck into him for a minute, just watching in awe as the beautiful man above him pulls his brows together and starts to shake, but when Louis’ dick starts taking an interest soon enough to hurt, he shoves Harry off and forces him onto his back.

“What’re you doing?” Harry asks, his voice slow and his eyes hazy. He’s almost out of it, cock sticking up and begging for mercy.

Louis reaches out and pulls off the condom before leaning forward and getting his mouth on it. Harry’s prick is warm in his mouth, twitching as soon as Louis’ tongue traces up the underside and swirls around the tip.

He makes it messy, using too much spit and sucking on the head, loud and wet. Harry’s fingers find his hair, and while he isn’t fucking Louis’ mouth he starts shallowing thrusting up into the feel of it, further and further until Louis’ trying not to gag.

It only takes a minute, Louis’ mouth spread wide and his fingers playing with Harry’s balls, and when Harry starts to come with a heavy breath and shuddering chest, Louis forces himself down as far as he can go.

“Holy shit,” Harry whispers after a beat, his voice coming out ragged in the empty space of Louis’ bedroom. When Louis pulls off, a trail of spit hangs from his lips and sticks to Harry’s skin.

He wipes at his mouth and ignores the twinge in his ass when he crawls to the head of his bed and finds himself beside Harry’s body. The condom is somewhere by their feet, disgusting and needing to be trashed, but Louis can’t bother to pay it any mind right now.

Harry turns to face him, his cheeks and neck all red. The two of them look beyond fucked out, even though they hardly lasted long at all, and Louis is surprised when Harry fills the space between their faces and presses a kiss to his lips.

It’s gross, and Louis definitely tastes like come, but Harry lays there and kisses him for the longest time. His tongue traces at Louis’ teeth, at his tongue and hips lips. It’s so sensual and warm, making Louis’ belly swell with that same wanting from earlier.

“You’re kind of amazing,” Louis says, reaching his hand up to feel at Harry’s neck.

He smiles through closed eyes, tugging Louis so that their naked bodies are pressed flush. It could easily heat up again very quickly, but Louis wants to savor the feeling of another person for now—just enjoy having someone to hold.

“Me?” Harry asks casually, thumb tracing agaist Louis’ hipbone. “I’m not amazing. You’re like… Van Gogh. But sexier.”

Louis snorts, and a smile falls on his lips. It’s genuine, for the first time in a long time. “You do realize that my art style is nothing like Van Gogh’s, right?”

“You know what I mean,” Harry replies, his forehead resting on Louis’.

They lay there for a while longer, just feeling one another and savor the silence around them. It should be awkward, doing something so intimate with a stranger, especially because of the circumstances that led up to the whole thing. But, Harry’s so perfect, like a gift from the universe, that Louis can’t imagine a world where any part of him would be awkward.

Louis doesn’t know what’s going to happen between them. He doesn’t really care to know, because something about the way they hold one another suggests there’s no reason to panic.

The one thing that Louis is sure of, though, is that he’s found himself a muse. Someone that makes him want to paint hundreds of cosmos, a million lives where the two of them will meet.

**Author's Note:**

> title from "the wolves (act i and ii)" by bon iver


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